Friends Don't Fall in Love(65)
“No,” I repeat more firmly. “I’ll be damned if I write one more word for you. You’re an entitled bastard who takes everyone who cares about you for granted. Fuck that, I’m done,” I spit out, slamming my fists on the desk and dislodg ing his. “You can write your own music or pay some other ass-hole to do it, and when the critics hear your new songs and speculate about how different they sound, or they question how your old songs sound like my new ones … and when they put two and two together that you’re a fraud, then I’ll be paid. And Lorelai will get paid, too. And you know what? Even Coolidge will get paid. And every other person you’ve kicked and stomped on and thrown off on your way up the ladder to where you are today.”
“You’re not suing me?” he asks, disbelieving.
I lean back into my chair, casual once more. “Not today.”
“But will you?”
“I can’t say for sure. Guess I’ll see how things pan out in the future. The industry is fickle, as you well know, and I’d hate for something like a ruined reputation to bring you down after you’ve worked so hard. Wonder what that would even look like? Would your label drop you? Your friends? Your agent and team? Would they cancel your tours?”
He leans back in his chair with a sigh. “So this is about Lorelai, then? She get under your skin? You guys together?”
I shake my head, nonplussed. “This is about the way you treat people. Lorelai, sure. You fucked up big-time on that one. She wanted to marry you and you let her go.” I shake my head, laughing humorlessly. “Which is just unreal to me. But I was actually talking about me. Which was always the problem. You kept forgetting about me. Disregarding the long hours I put in for years to help you get where you are. Writing your songs, playing in your band, smoothing things over with your fiancée and your family and the press and your agent and whoever the fuck else. Don’t worry, Boseman’s got it.
“Well, man.” I spread my arms wide, grinning and gesturing to my little empire. “It’s not a lot, but it’s mine. Look around. I got it. And now I want you to get the fuck out of my studio.”
* * *
After shaking off my encounter with Colter, I was too wired to go home to my empty apartment. Things with Lorelai have been a little warmer after finishing up the album, but they’re still different. Awkward. With Maren in town, I figure it’s best to let her have her space and spend time with her friend without my crashing their party.
So I head out on foot toward downtown. It’s been a while since I wandered the streets of Nashville alone, taking in the sights and sounds. The smell. The intensity, desperation, and unrelenting hope of it all. No set direction. Just absorbing it into my pores and trying to remember where it all began for me. Why I’m still here, doing what I do, despite the bullshit.
I know I’m being immature when it comes to Drake and the songs. Petty, even. I should just sue him and put him out of his misery or sign the nondisclosure and put myself out of mine. I’m an adult and a businessman. But somehow, weighing both of those “more mature” options feels like caving into a part of myself I’m not interested in feeding. Signing the nondisclosure feels like bending over to Drake. Still. Again. Allowing him to use those songs to further himself. But suing him might feel worse. Initially, I didn’t get into this industry for the credit. I avoided the fanfare, happy to play backup and write behind the scenes. Money and popularity were secondary to the art. I know more now, obviously. Of course you need money to survive. That’s a nonstarter. And popularity might be secondary to art, but the more recognition, the more art you get to make. And I’m also aware of my privilege. I’ve inherited enough money to start my own label. It’s easy to be like, “I’m in this for the art,” when I don’t need to worry about paying my electric bill. Which is sort of the point, I guess. That same privilege also means I don’t need to seek out more money just to stick it to someone who used to be my friend. Choosing to do so would be simply for the principle of the thing, and that doesn’t sit well with me.
It’s convoluted, but my gut says I’m making the right choice by not making a choice at all. Maybe it’s immature, or maybe it’s a temporary stopgap that’s gonna bite me in the ass cheek later. Probably will, but I have to live with myself in the meantime.
I eventually stop in one of the bars, order a beer, and sit on a patio at a small table by myself, watching the people passing by on the sidewalks and listening to the echoes of at least three different songs being played in three different open-air bars on this very corner. I’m nearing the bottom of my glass when a familiar face settles in the chair across from me.
“Ms. Hamilton,” I say with a nod to the tall blonde.
“Please, call me Trina. Ms. Hamilton is what I make Coolidge and Jacoby call me when they piss me off. Craig, this is my wife, Melody.” She gestures to a pretty redhead with bold glasses. “Mel, this is Craig Boseman, one of the most talented producers about town.”
“Ha,” I say. “Pleasure to meet you, Melody. That’s an embarrassing exaggeration, Trina, but I’m not above flattery. Can I get you ladies a drink?”
Trina’s already shaking her head, waving a server over. “Ordered at the bar and told them where to find us when I saw you out here. You alone tonight?”